Starbuck stepped off the wagon directly onto the horse’s back. He fumbled with his feet for the stirrups, took the reins and kicked back with his tar-stained shoes. He guessed he had lost his books and clothes, but the loss was hardly important. The books were exegetical texts left over from his studies at the Yale Theological Seminary and at best he might have sold them for a dollar fifty. The clothes were of even less value, and so he abandoned his belongings, instead following his rescuers out of the crowd and up Pearl Street. Starbuck was still shaking, and still hardly daring to believe he had escaped the crowd’s torment. “How did you know I was there, sir?” he asked Washington Faulconer.

“I didn’t realize it was you, Nate, I just heard that some young fellow claiming to know me was about to be strung up for the crime of being a Yankee, so I thought we should take a look. It was a teamster who told me, a Negro fellow. He heard you say my name and he knew my house, so he came and told my steward. Who told me, of course.”

“I owe you an extraordinary debt, sir.”

“You certainly owe the Negro fellow a debt. Or rather you don’t, because I thanked him for you with a silver dollar.” Washington Faulconer turned and looked at his bedraggled companion. “Does that nose hurt?”

“No more than a usual bloody nose, sir.”

“Might I ask just what you’re doing here, Nate? Virginia doesn’t seem the healthiest place for a Massachusetts man to be running loose.”

“I was looking for you, sir. I was planning to walk to Faulconer Court House.”

“All seventy miles, Nate!” Washington Faulconer laughed. “Didn’t Adam tell you we keep a town house? My father was a state senator, so he liked to keep a place in Richmond to hang his hat. But why on earth were you looking for me? Or was it Adam you wanted? He’s up north, I’m afraid. He’s trying to avert war, but I think it’s a little late for that. Lincoln doesn’t want peace, so I fear we’ll have to oblige him with war.” Faulconer offered this mix of questions and answers in a cheerful voice. He was an impressive-looking man of middle years and medium height, with a straight back and wide square shoulders. He had short fair hair, a thick square-cut beard, a face that seemed to radiate frankness and kindness, and blue eyes that were crinkled in an expression of amused benignity. To Starbuck he seemed just like his son, Adam, whom Starbuck had met at Yale and whom Starbuck always thought of as the decentest man he had ever met. “But why are you here, Nate?” Faulconer asked his original question again.